Chapter Five
“But then he carried you up the stairs! And it was truly one of the most romantic things I have ever seen!”
Bea was supposed to be working on her needlepoint, but all she could do was think about the new Duke of Rothesay. She flung the embroidery circlet around as she recounted the story, miming Cordelia’s fainting spell.
“Bea, please,” Portia said, her expression tight.
“Have you ever seen Mrs. Norris so utterly bewildered?”
“Bea,” Cordelia moaned, lifting the warm washcloth off her face to give her a reproachful look.
“I told you that you could only sit here if you were quiet,” she said.
Her voice was hoarse, the flesh behind her eyes hot.
Though she’d slept through the night and had dinner, she still felt the rise of bile in the back of her throat.
“A concussion,” the doctor had told her when she was packed off to bed.
Hermione had invented some story, with much stuttering, of how Cordelia had slipped down the stairs after they’d been cleaned in anticipation of the duke’s arrival.
The doctor chided the ladies for wearing silk slippers and then had gone promptly on his way, prescribing plenty of rest and for the curtains to be drawn at all hours of the day.
“It’s like a bloody medieval lying in room,” Portia said, lifting a candle closer to the book she was reading to make out the words.
“At least you can go outside,” Cordelia muttered. “Apparently I won’t see daylight until next week!”
“Maybe you should have thought of that before you went galloping through the countryside at break-neck speeds,” Portia replied.
“And his eyes were so… so… blue,” Bea sighed from the corner.
“Bea!” Portia said, taking a small cushion from a chair next to her and flinging it across the room. Bea ducked expertly, sticking out her tongue.
“Has anyone seen or heard from Hermione?” Cordelia asked.
Portia shrugged. “Knowing her, she’s found some neglected plants to tend to in the greenhouse where she will hide until the duke leaves.”
“Is the duke leaving?” Bea asked, a hint of distress in her voice.
“Bea, if you so much as think of the duke one more time, I will personally throw you into the reflecting pond,” Portia warned, setting down the candle on the bedside table and gathering her younger sister in her arms.
“I’m too old to be held like this!”
“Nonsense. You’re not yet ten,” Portia said, gripping Bea closer to her chest and swinging her about the room. Bea squealed in happiness and Portia laughed. The commotion made Cordelia peek out from under her cloth once more. She couldn’t help but smile.
But a familiar feeling of anxiety poisoned the happiness.
“What time is it anyway?” Cordelia asked, trying to clear the foggy feeling of dread that had pooled in her stomach.
She’d been able to keep down broth and biscuits, but her stomach was still fluttering.
Her sisters were spending nearly all of their free time by her side, which was a comfort.
But when they were gone her mind went back to its barrage of questions that all seemed to ask: What will become of you and your family?
“After dinner,” Portia said.
In the darkness of her room it was difficult to tell what time it was. “Goodness!” Cordelia exclaimed, stretching her arms above her head.
“I’d like the chance to stretch my legs, at least,” Cordelia said, sitting up and fluffing the pillows behind her back.
“And go where? To apologize to the duke for ruining his walking boots?” Portia remarked, stifling laughter.
Now Cordelia chucked a pillow at her sister, who took it to the side of her pretty face. “Careful there. I’m carrying open flame!”
Sighing, Cordelia climbed out of bed and reached for a wrapper that had been discarded on the floor. Shoving her arms through its sleeves, she belted it around her waist. “I won’t be long,” she said.
*
Justin had not been piled under so many papers since his days at Cambridge. He pushed a hand through his hair, trying to concentrate as he reread land agreements that had been in place with tenant farmers since the early 1700s. His eyes were going crossed.
Leaning back in the leather wingback chair, he sighed, reaching for the tea Mrs. Norris had brought him a half hour ago, or had it been longer?
He didn’t even need to blow on it; the tea had gone completely cold.
Come to think of it, this room, the late duke’s office, was freezing.
He cupped his hands over his mouth and blew, trying to warm himself up.
It was hardly any use. Everything about Hollyhead was cold.
And large. And uninviting. There were hardly any people about.
No servants wished to speak to him, he saw hardly any tenants on his daily walks, and the four young misses had been cooped up somewhere for the last few days, evidently unimpressed with their father’s… brother’s… whoever it was, replacement.
They were remarkably good at avoiding him.
Though Justin was an early riser, he found that they usually breakfasted before him.
He’d enter a room just as someone was leaving it, hearing a door slam shut.
There were wisps of smoke where someone had blown out a candle.
And there were whispers, everywhere. He’d hear strings of soft voices or giggles or conversation and wondered where they were coming from.
He felt distinctly as though he were being haunted. By four living girls.
The oil lamp hissed as it began to die. Justin stood from the desk and walked to one of the windows, which overlooked Hollyhead’s reflecting pool and manicured lawn. The marble partitions seemed to absorb the moonlight, glowing bright against the dark-blue grass.
Mrs. Norris would be in bed by this hour, and he had no idea where to fetch new lamp oil, or how to ring for assistance, or if there were even servants that would be obliged to help him in the night.
The chatelaine had been quite put out by his lack of understanding.
Just yesterday the old woman had been absolutely befuddled by the fact that he had no valet for himself.
When he remarked that he didn’t know why so many aristocrats required help to dress, she tut-tutted to herself, chastening him as she would a naughty boy.
Justin had barely been here for two days, and it was becoming clear that he was woefully unprepared for the life of a duke.
It was the kind of role that one needed to be apprenticed to while young.
Recognizing the need for reinforcements, he sent a letter today to his good friend Henry Peverill.
Though Peverill was an unrecognized son of a marquis, his father had brought him up under his wing and would know more of these matters.
But until Justin heard from him, he was utterly alone.
Checking his pocket watch, Justin decided that he’d make sense of the mountains of paperwork tomorrow. Moving away from the windows, he made his way into the corridor. Now, if only he could remember his way back to the duke’s rooms.
Looking down both ends of the hall, he saw a glow coming from one of the many doorways. Curious, he headed in that direction. Perhaps he could persuade a footman to help him.
“Hello?” he whispered as he pushed on the oak door.
He heard a startled gasp as a figure barreled into him, cracking him directly on the nose. “Bloody hell!” Justin shouted.
Someone squeaked out an “Oh!” and stepped back. When the dots of light that danced in his vision had vanished, he noted the small, nymph-like creature in front of him. Blinking his eyes, he saw that it was Cordelia Nichols, but this time she was wrapped in something gauzy and form-fitting.
“I-I must apologize, Your Grace,” she said hurriedly.
Justin hummed a response as he touched the front of his nose, feeling blood begin to well there. He reached in his pocket for a handkerchief, dabbing it against his nostrils. “This is the third time you’ve caught me out,” he said.
Lady Cordelia, who was washed in orange light from the lamp she carried, blushed a deep crimson. He thought it looked rather fetching on her.
“Mrs. Norris keeps bandages and gauze in the kitchens. Perhaps I can bring you some?” she tried, her hushed voice echoing as she stepped into the hallway.
“I’ll come with you,” Justin suggested.
She hesitated for a moment, but then held the lamp in front of her, leading the way.
In truth, Justin could have made his way there himself.
Though he was raised on the periphery of the property, the kitchens were the most welcoming place in the manor house, where Alice used to invite him for a bowl of soup or crust of bread.
Lady Cordelia’s nightgown floated around her like a thick mist, her braided hair reaching almost to her waist. As soon as they’d been introduced, Justin knew that she was the young woman who’d been thrown off the black stallion.
There was no mistaking those brown eyes that widened in shock when she saw him first in the forest and then again in the foyer.
She opened a creaking door to the kitchens and set the lamp down on a large wooden table.
Justin plunked himself down on a long bench, letting the dim fire warm him.
He had a sudden memory of Alice handing him rags to staunch the bleeding from a broken nose.
He sucked in a deep breath, forcing down the image. He wasn’t that little boy anymore.
“Here we are,” Lady Cordelia said, laying a thick strip of gauze on the table. “I am terribly sorry, Your Grace.”
“What were you doing in the library at this hour anyway?” he asked. “I thought the doctor gave you strict instructions to stay in your room for the rest of the week.” Justin didn’t mean to sound patronizing, but cringed inwardly as the words fell from his mouth. That’s exactly what he sounded like.
Lady Cordelia bristled. “Well, I was feeling recovered and thought it might be good to stretch my legs a little.”
Justin harrumphed, tilting his head back to apply the gauze.
She stood in front of the fireplace, watching him, a curious expression on her face.
Out of the corner of his eye, Justin could see the hazy light had backlit her dressing gown, revealing the shadowy shapes of two well-curved legs, perfect for riding astride.
A shiver ran up his spine. Would he ever encounter this woman in appropriate dress?
“Do you plan on running into me every time we meet?” he asked. He meant it as a joke, but it came off rougher than expected.
“Certainly not,” she said, her head snapping up at him. Those brown eyes narrowed, as though she were taking the measure of him.
“I am only joking,” he added. “Are dukes not supposed to make light of such things?”
“Well,” she began, “perhaps dukes with your upbringing.”
Justin’s eyebrows shot up at her reproach. Cordelia cleared her throat, gathering the lamp in her hand. “Is there anything else I can do for Your Grace?” she asked, her eyes darting to the door.
Justin folded his arms across his chest. Ill-bred dukes can play this game too, Miss High-and-Mighty, he thought. “Yes, perhaps you could take me on a tour of my estate tomorrow? I have been out walking but haven’t been able to see the whole of it yet.”
Two pink splotches appeared on Lady Cordelia’s cheeks, her lips pursing. Justin could tell when he hit a sore spot, and he gave her a half smile.
She nodded her head. “They are best enjoyed by horseback. Can you ride, Your Grace?”
Justin stiffened at that. He could sit on a horse (albeit, not well) and get around. Who did she think he was? An ignorant Londoner out for a holiday in the country? Which, though he would never admit it aloud, he was feeling very much like in the moment. “I can ride, Miss Nichols.”
The chit sniffed, lifting her chin in the air.
“Very well,” she said. “In fact, I am feeling much recovered. I will meet you tomorrow morning in the stable yard, if that pleases Your Grace.”
For some reason, hearing her pronounce his title made him uneasy. She said it with a certain air of sarcasm, which made him feel wholly unworthy of everything that had recently come into his possession.
“It does please me. Good night, Miss Nichols.”
She curtsied once more. “Your rooms are at the other end of the house, Your Grace. Shall I ring for Mrs. Norris to show you?”
“I can manage,” Justin countered.
“Oh, I am sure you can, Your Grace. And you must address me properly. It is Lady Cordelia. You will need to learn to observe these things, as the heir to the dukedom.”
He watched as she turned on her foot and marched away. He ought to have shouted down the corridor something equally cutting. The only thing that came to mind was a countdown. Only a few more weeks enduring you, he thought. And then I shall be rid of you forever.